


The making of a soldier

by UMsArchive



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Trans Character, eventual background victuuri, eventual otaburi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:22:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMsArchive/pseuds/UMsArchive
Summary: “Tomorrow you’’ll come to practice right? I can become much better. Even if mama does not come, I’ll be ok.”Grandpa Nikolai has believed he would someday be a top Male Figure Skater, back when other wouldn’t even believe he would be a man.





	1. 1

He didn’t have friends his age while growing up. He simply didn’t fit in with all those girl groups he was thrown into. The reasons were quite obvious to him, although he couldn’t really put them into words back then. His mother blamed it on him being too unfriendly and unapproachable and often reprimanded him for it. Perhaps that played a role in it, too. But since as early as he could remember, the only friend he seemed to have ever had was his дедушка Nikolai. 

His дедушка was never the warmest person one could meet, but for the grandson in particular he was the most welcoming person on Earth. He was stoic, blunt and always wore a sober expression. His speech was never soft, but it was always helpful and supporting. His expression was rarely kind, but his acts always were. It was not often that hei saw his grandpa smile, but he would time and again manage to put that grin back on his face. 

The first time his mother has left him to spend time at his grandfather’s house, he was only about four. He was not in the best mood, since his mother has dressed him up in the fluffiest pink dress, although he protested and even cried against even buying it. He would alternate between glaring down at the dress and throwing his grandfather sheepish looks. 

The child was rather afraid of him. Nikolai Plisetski was a tall, hard man who didn’t say much during his scarce, short visits - even though they lived in the same block. On those occasions his rare and short responses sounded distant and severe and his mother didn’t seem to enjoy his presence either. But they were his only family since his father died or so his mother used to say. But he was also their only family and so since his mother had found a very demanding job, he’d end up at his grandfather's increasingly often. Something he eventually began to enjoy.

“Why are you looking so stiff, Yulia?” 

The child flinched, looking up with widened eyes, realizing he was the one addressed. “This dress is tight. I don’t like it,” he replied in a hurried voice. He looked down, the next words almost a whisper, “I don’t like pink. Or dresses.” 

He looked up tentatively, but looked back down under Nikolai’s intense eyes. He found the remote lying next to where he was sitting, on the couch, and turned on the tv, absently watching some cartoons he didn’t even know (his mother didn’t even let him watch cartoons - they were ‘too silly’), hoping his grandfather won’t try to talk to him again. He didn’t. Not until calling him for lunch, when they didn’t talk much either, aside from being asked if he liked the food - he honestly did. After the meal, Nikolai gave him pirozhki - those were even tastier and he ate them in a rush his mother would call ‘very unladylike’. 

Next time he came by, he was wearing once again a very uncomfortable dress, this time a bright yellow. As soon as his mother left, his grandfather came to the couch where he was staying stiffly once again, carrying something he laid next to him, mumbling something about being more comfortable. He only looked down at them once he heard Nikolai’s footsteps out out the room. Neatly folded, there were a pair of faded blue trousers and a green jumper. Both were slightly large for him and definitely not new - he knew Nikolai didn’t have much money, from his mother’s comments. Yet, he happily shedded the flashy yellow mess in a tousled ball and laid in front of the same cartoon channel in an almost casual position. 

He once again joined his grandfather for lunch and while he savored his pirozhki, Nikolai had shortly went to the living room. When his grandpa came back to do the dishes, he returned to the living room, finding the yellow monster ironed and laid neatly on the couch’s edge. He slid back on by the time his mother was supposed to come back. As if they had a quiet understanding, Nikolai neatly folded the trousers and jumper as he did so, taking them away.

On his next visit (in which a red velvet dress and red shoes were involved), the exchange repeated - he laid the dress more carefully this time, to not trouble his дедушка more than it was necessary. 

Every visit, the pirozhki’s filling was a different one, making the first bite not only a delicious experience, but also a bit exciting one. He has ended up more than once burning his tongue by being too rushed in taking that bite, earning a not unkind, “Careful, Yulia.”

“I don’t like that name,” he dared to reply one of those days. After one instance of his grandfather understanding his feelings, perhaps he felt more confident to do it again.

“What is wrong with your name?” Nikolai didn’t look right at him as he said it, but he preferred it that way.

Yuri shrugged. He couldn’t really tell, it just didn’t click. “I just don’t like it.”

“What is the name you’d prefer then?”

He shrugged again. He didn’t really think choosing a different one was an option for him. 

“Find one you like and we’ll use that one, then,” was said in his grandpa's usual monotone voice, but it was one of the best things he had ever heard.

It took him a lot sneaking around, researching names without his mother to know. It wasn’t that simple, since he didn’t have much time by himself. He was now going to ballet classes to which his mother had signed him up to, hoping he’d make friends, but they rather bored him - both the classes and the girls frequenting them. He only saw Nikolai on Saturdays. 

But it was three Saturdays later that said out of nowhere as Nikolai laid the pirozhki plate on the table, “Yuri, I like Yuri.” He said it in a very nonchalant voice, ready to defend any opposition at it being a boy’s name.

His research times made him realize he simply didn’t really find a girl’s name to be fitting of him. They had a flowery intonation to them, no matter how short and simple some were. And it repelled him immensely. ‘Yuri’ clicked. It was close enough to his real name, but with a whole new connotation to it. 

“Yuri it is then,” Nikolai said simply, not pausing from eating his borscht. And so it stayed. At least between them. Yuri’s attachment to the old man grew with every time Nikolai would address him as such. As well as his trust.

“I hate the ballet classes,” he found himself confessing on the day he turned six, in between two bites of pirozhki, in a thick, snappy tone that his mother despised. “They aren’t even useful. But мама thinks it would help me be sociable - which is not the case,” he continued confidently, despite getting no response. 

“Your mother does what she thinks is best for you, Yurotchka,” was his дедушка’s reply. It didn’t really make him feel better, but the use of the nickname did mend it a bit. “Finish your meal. Today, we’re going out. 

Yuri looked up with interest, but grandpa Nikolai didn't add anything more at the time, nor was he even looking any longer in his direction. They never really walked out the house during Yuri's visits, unless Nikolai needed something from the store, but on those times he would leave alone. Hey never even went to the park. Nikolai had his old man habits and Sundays were his walking days, from what Yuri had deduced through their minimal conversations. 

It may have been that grandpa Nikolai did recall his birthday, after all, although he had given no sign of remembrance. Or so he hoped. He finished his pirozhki even faster than usual, too hyped about their mysterious outing. Grandpa Nikolai did not hurry, though. He cleaned the table slowly and calm, as usual, only turning to tell Yuri he'd have to change out of the house clothes in the meantime. That did cut a bit off of his giddiness. 

He did have pants this time, for a change, although not quite what he would've chosen. A few months back, he had hinted to his mother that he would really appreciate not necessarily a change, but at least an addition to his wardrobe that would incline more towards nice feeling rather than prettiness. Additional hint: no any more skirts or dresses. 

He didn't mind that they were as tight as the warm woollen tights he would wear under his dresses were, but the flower embroidery along the edges adorned all the way down his legs and the shiny voluminous hearts on both his ass cheeks did quite make having them as less of a blessing. 

But, when Yuri walked back to the couch, he found a second change of clothes next to his own. Black jeans. A brown woolen sweater. But definitely new. And definitely of nice quality - they must have cost grandpa Nikolai quite something. 

They fit him just perfectly. He looked proudly in the mirror, feeling that his figure was this time adequately framed. He undid the braid falling down his shoulder, letting his waist long hair free, and then used the clips to gather it neatly into a bun - he hated it when it was all in his way. 

Feeling bold, as he picked up his black trench coat to put it on, he removed the lace that he couldn’t stand from the sleeves’ edges and bottom edge and, before the courage to fade, he ripped off the woolen bows caught on the outer edges of his boots, too. 

His grandfather finally walked out of the kitchen, still wiping his hands. He seemed to have assessed the situation briefly and then, without saying a word, nodded shortly, going back to leave the tea towel.

He dressed up and took on his boots way too slowly, in the view of an overexcited, over-curious Yuri but, finally, the were out the door together, a premiere in that matter and Yuri was feeling all giddy, although he tried not to look it. 

They walked to the bus station and spent about 10 minutes on the bus itself without sharing even a word of explanation, aside from mere instruction, to get on the bus, to get down at that station, to follow him, all in a gentle tone, but very brief nonetheless.

A skating rink. It began obvious eventually that, of all the buildings around, that’s where they were strictly headed. Yuri never skated before, so the excitement and curiosity stood intact as they headed in. 

To his surprise, his grandfather took a pair of skaters for himself too. He wouldn’t have thought grandpa Nikolai to be too keen on strenuous exercise. But perhaps he just wanted to accompany Yuri to make sure he’ll be ok. As he glanced on the rink, seeing most people just lightly gliding across the ice, he guessed there might not be that much effort put into it. Somewhere farther in a corner though, some older teenagers were jumping on the eyes, rotating for 2-3 times in the air, before coming down on the ice again.

“They look as if they’re… flying.” He would find out later, those were far from the better jumps and those skaters were barely over amateur level in the sport, but for Yuri that was the first sighting of something resembling figure skating. And he was enthralled. 

“It is supposed to look effortless, Yurotchka, but it requires a lot of training and skill.”

 

Yuri wondered only momentarily why his grandpa would be interested or knowledgeable in the sport. He guessed it must be something people knew about. There were people out there probably who thought it was a big deal. It made him feel more righteous in thinking it looked like a big deal. 

 

As soon as he stepped on the ice and almost had his first fall on the ice as well, he realized the jumps weren’t all that has look effortless when staying on blunt concrete. Luckily, his grandfather was right there behind him, catching him by his armpits. Reluctantly, he has had to accept the old man’s hand as he took his first roundabout. On his second, he begged him to just let Yuri glide by the railings, promising he’d catch on them if he felt himself slipping - which indeed happened quite often. Of course, Nikolai still skated close by, but, to Yuri’s surprise, he seemed to know very well what he was doing. 

On his third roundabout, he managed to barely depend on the railings anymore. After he finished that one, he was confident he could start departing from the edge. And he did pretty well. But not perfect. He had his first fall. His grandpa asked if he was fine. He was very fine. He was smiling, almost relieved he has had that first fall. He even laughed shortly. The ice was cold, but the fall didn’t really hurt. Because it was an action of gliding, ‘falling’ at that point was just ‘extra unintentional gliding’, his body slipping speedy and casually on the ice - uniformly. His skating was improving still. 

But he eventually reached a point where falls came one by one. As much as they didn’t really bothered him physically, he was getting frustrated. He hated to admit it, but he was actually losing focus. He wanted to stay focused, to get better, but it was his body giving in, getting tired, not being so responsive anymore. 

It was by that time that his grandfather said it was time to go home, especially since his mother would be coming from work soon enough. Yuri made him promise they’ll come back - he pleaded even, which was all very unlike him. 

 

The strong jumping men on the ice were still all he had in mind as he unpacked his mother's presents and ate his birthday cake. Those catchy thoughts were even helpful when the damaged coat and boots were addressed and they arrived at the conclusion 'I won't get through the trouble of having them repaired. As a lesson, you'll wear them as they are', to which Yuri tried his best not to look too contented.


	2. 2

Yuri almost tripped over his own feet, true exhibition of a gold medalist grace, hurrying into his blouse first thing, his back turned to the entrance, struggling into his jeans the very next second. He was trembling hard, he realized, cursing his idiocy, too panicked to look up at who walked in, as he zipped up his hoodie as well, putting the hood over his head.

"I'm sorry for bursting in. I didn't mean to unsettle you," Otabek seems to have found his voice, unlike him. He sounded calm and Yuri cursed inwardly for not being so himself. They were in the men's changing room. No man should appologise for going in or be shocked for another man coming in either.

"It's nothing," Yuri snapped bitterly, gathering his things in a bag, but he didn't look up at Otabek, the tone in his voice hollow. It shouldn't be a big deal. It shouldn't make him want to tear up like a pansy, but there he fucking was, apparently. 

\-----

 

As much as he had previously tried to keep his snappier tone out of the conversations with his mother, a seven years old Yuri found himself no longer physically able to. He was becoming increasingly tired and generally disatisfied and easily irritable. There was a feeling of dread following all of his day to day activities. Especially the ballet classes. 

The white dress and tights made him feel inadequate while dancing and made his movements stiff and forced. His mother received comments (later directed at Yuri) about it, how her Yulia had technique, but lacked expression, how she didn't seem to know whatever she did with her body sometimes, overdoing moves, miscalculating distances. The instructor's remarks on how he didn't make himself look graceful enough, girly enough, only made him want to tear up, but he never did. He bottled it up, building up a bitter resentment directed nowhere in particular. 

The truth was, the same stiffness and discomfort in his body extended outside of ballet, although it was much easier to cover up. His everyday movements looked somehow heavy, somehow exaggerated on his body. He lived with the strange impression that he either took too much space or should in fact occupy more. His mother called his general mannerism brutal, from the way he slammed doors, jumped off the bed with a bang and even pulled at someone to call for their attention. He was constantly shushed as his voice ringed too high, too brash. He was constantly on the verge of crying, too, but he never cried.

His best times were still with his grandpa. These days, they spent their time either watching skating on tv or going to the rink. The only reason why Yuri still complied with going to ballet was because it turned out as a useful background for figure skating. But he knew that the ballet level they did in his class was not enough, couldn't be enough. The choreographies seemed to be constructed to look adorable for their mothers in recitals, not to actually satisfy an artistic level. 

He longed for more targeted training sessions. He wanted to do something with purpose. The idea of wasting his time doing something just for the sake of looking pretty and dainty burned him to the core. He tried talking about it with his mother. Her reply frustrated him to no end. She said that there was no point in paying him a class to learn to skid round on ice - it was a waste of time. 

In his grandfather's house, Yuri would sometimes ask Nikolai if he could move the furniture out of the way for him to practice. He would spin and twirl, moving with that carefree determination and confidence he couldn't bring to the studio. His dance did lack something in expression. In feeling. He moved to express an earnest feeling, incomplete without the unknown he was yearning for. In the absence of that, he yearned to be good. And he was, drawing moves from skaters he saw on tv rather than his ballet instructor. Once in a while, he got to try them on ice, attempting it even before he could skate properly altogether. He liked how skating allowed him to make use of that raw force his body begged to set free, while he also knew the gracefulness it transpired from afar. He wished he could jump, manage to spin at least once in the air, but that was not something he could manage to copy without proper instruction, even off ice.

The current rising star in men's figure skating was one Viktor Nikiforov. Yuri watched him with a sort of cold hunger, somewhat calculating. There was something he had that Yuri wanted, although he couldn't quite place it. He didn't want to be him, still. He wanted something of his own and his young mind knew no limits in picturing the sort of better something that that could be. That brute force that Yuri struggled with, Nikiforov managed to convey into majestic grace. But Yuri wanted to take that force and display it openly in a way that would no longer invalidate him. He wanted his brutality to show without making him a brute.

On a Sunday morning, before a ballet recital he was supposed to attend with his mother, Yuri lost it. He was unusually irritated and fidgety. The other day, he didn't get to have his usual time at relaxation at the rink like any other Saturday. Their instructor had called them in for a last extra rehearsal. He had been shouted at, corrected endlessly and danced to exhaustion. He could not cope with the thought of having to be there today again. It was beyond his patience. He didn't think he could see the face of his instructor again without throwing fits. His breathed hitched at the thought, his heart hammering in his chest. The ballet dress was too tight on him. His mother was complaining about the amount of pirozhki his grandfather was feeding him, forcibly zipping the dress at his back - Yuri couldn't breathe.

He caught at the chest top edge of the dress and pulled, with all of that force he was used to supress. The material ripped down to his abdomen under his bewildered eyes and he took a deep relieved breath like it's has been a while. He almost smiled, before his mother's incredulous shouts filled the room. But Yuri was enraged himself and would not back down this time. He did everything he wasn't allowed to do, that day: shouted snappily back at her, slammed doors, hit things around him, jumping with bangs on the floor as the argument went on. He insulted ballet and the ballet instructor with the worst words he could think of (an impressive amount of them for a seven years old), he swore he wasn't going to set foot in that hellhole again, all as he ripped the rest of the dress piece by piece, clawing at it like he was removing plastered seaweed off his body, putting on the most loose clothes he could find.

Yuri slammed their front door right in his mother's face, running down the stairs breathlessly, slamming his fists against his grandfather's door. Nikolai opened it looking surprised, all dressed and ready for his Sunday walk. 

"Take me to the park with you," Yuri told him almost pleadingly, as his mother was approaching in a more composed manner than Yuri had.

"I'll take Yulia for a walk to cool down, Evgenia," came from Nikolai before his mother could open her mouth. Yuri momentarily flinched at the sound of that name of his coming from his granpda - it sounded... wrong.

Evgenia pursed her lips, "She has a recital she needs to prepare for, Nikolai."

"I am not going there!" Yuri yelled, his head snapping up at her in rage, before he subdued instantly, his face reddening in shame to have looked that way in front of his grandpa.

"There's no point in forcing her there if she is set against it, Evgenia," Nikolai argued in his usual calm manner. "It's clear the ballet has taken a toll on her. Perhaps it does not suit her," he went on, walking slowly away with Yuri's hand in his as he did so, leaving his mother no chance to put up a fight.

They walked in silence for a while and Yuri found himself calming down, but not raising to higher spirits. Most of what he had gathered in all of that time was anger and once that was left out, not much was left. Aside from his growing passion-

"I want to be a figure skater," he said eventually, sort of lamenting. 

"What makes it so different from ballet, Yurotchka?"

Yuri felt a nice warmth in his stomach at the comeback of his beloved nickname. At the thought of skating the way he wanted to.   
"Because it's more like me," he found it to be the best way to explain.

"I'll try to talk to your mother when she's calmer," his grandpa answered eventually.

He was feeling a bit lighter, even though nothing was really resolved on. But the day was quite warm. His hair had been wrapped up in preparation for the recital so it didn't fall in his face. The sun was shining in his back, so he had no trouble admiring ahead. And his grandfather was there with him. 

It was a nice day.

They went back in for dinner. Yuri was very hungry. His mother only let him have a light snack so he wouldn't be bloated for the recital. Plus, grandpa Nikolai cooked better.

"Can we go to the park every Sunday?" Yuri asked hopefully, watching some random movie he would forget and munching on roasted peanuts they had bought on the way home.

"What if you start skating and will have to practice on Sundays?"

Then can you get me to practice instead?" Yuri asked then, hopefulness intact.

"We'll see, Yurotchka." Coming from Nikolai, it was enough of an assurance for Yuri. 

He fell asleep, completely exhausted, not long into the movie, and Nikolai called Evgenia and told her it would do no good to wake the child up, especially after such a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added an extra chapter and might do it again, depending on how much I choose to explore this in the end. We'll see. I was supposed to add the end of the Otabek+Yuri scene in the beginning, but it seemed to fit more in what I had in mind to expand on in the next chapter.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to update this quicker, although, admittedly, it ended up a bit shorter than I would've preferred.

He was sure the hint of feminine curves barely starting to fade were still there as he lounged across the bed, the deep dip of his waist very obvious, the presence of small breasts underneath his binder impossible to miss from his profile. He would normally have been more anxious at the thought of leaving those hints in plain view when someone but the few who have always known his secret knocked on his bedroom's door. But he told him to enter, without adjusting a single detail of his image, although he did lower the phone that has captured all of his attention thus far.

 

"Hey," Yuri beamed at him. "Did grandpa let you in?"

 

Otabek nodded, not one for talking much. He looked around the room a bit uneasily, as if not sure where to go next.

 

"Just sit on the bed," Yuri waved a hand casually. He finally decided to adjust himself, sitting and crossing his legs - Otabek mirrored his position. He took out a pin, caught a few strands from both sides just to take the extra hair out of his face. He needed a haircut, most definitely. Even Yakov mentioned it a few times, but Yuri snapped back saying Viktor had never been asked to cut his freaking long hair. In all honesty, Yuri didn't even want to grow it out like that. He just wasn't sure yet how he wanted it and wouldn't make a rushed decision.

 

"All ready for Rostelecom?" Yuri inquired, not letting Otabek give a proper answer to that before adding, "Where is your luggage? Did you get your bike shipped? You'll be able to rest for today, right? I was thinking maybe we could-"

 

Otabek stopped him by putting one hand over his mouth. By his expression, he seemed to find Yuri's rant both amusing and endearing. Yuri managed to look insulted, although his lips curled under his friend's hand.

 

"Right. My luggage is in the hall. I thought I'd say hi first. My bike arrived yesterday, but we have to pick it up from their garage. I do have the rest of the day free - you had me choose the dawn flight for more time to hang out, remember? - but take that into account, my jet lag and the fact that I have to be rested for tomorrow's practice before you make our plans," and with that he released Yuri's mouth.

 

Yes, it was strange, talking about the Grand Prix like it was nothing, like he hadn't failed miserably at Skate America, like he hadn't lost the chance to be in the final this year, like it hadn’t all been just a little while ago. 

  
  


Otabek, on the other side of the phone, has heard the first choked words filled with anger, all directed at himself only. Otabek has left him spit it all, relieve himself, before he finally talked, in his calming voice, with the right calming words he needed to him. Otabek never exaggerated. Never pitied. He was blunt, but gentle. He found technical reasonable explanations for all of his failings, all due to various wrongs that he couldn't have controlled. He analysed Yuri's performance for what it had been, gave his opinion on what it will be when he'll adapt better to the changes, gave examples on how he dealt himself with this or that, ended up adding funny stories on things he messed up worse than Yuri ever could. By the end, Yuri was found laughing on the phone by Viktor - who saw him disappear and became worried, despite Yakov's insisting Yuri would be ok - and shouting at Viktor for being a nosy little shit. (Viktor had been there for Yuuri, who got gold). He teased him about who could be on the other end.

 

“I’ll talk to you when the nuisance is gone,” he had sighed into the phone, his tears already dried. 

 

Yuri had thought he had a well established opinion concerning people crying over phones after a loss. He never thought that it would've made him cry. And if it did, he wouldn't have thought he'd've wanted anyone to hear. Perhaps it was dangerous,  to rely on someone.  And Yuri had always preferred only to rely on himself.  He still did. Whatever prompted him to choose otherwise that day, he didn't know. He just knew it wasn't as terrible as he would've imagined that to go. He didn't feel weaker in front of him now. On the contrary,  he felt as if something between them has become stronger and Yuri couldn't help but think it was all on Otabek and how he just ‘handled’ his younger friend. 

 

Yuri had never felt about anyone  like they could be his equal. He had never thought so lightly and supportive about someone he also regarded as serious competition.  He found himself bitter about himself not being in the competition and about everyone else who still was, but that somehow didn't extend to Otabek. He was very subjective,  ok, he got that. He knew Otabek was not as good as him, or as Viktor, and also admittedly,  undeniably, definitely, not like Yuuri. Also hard to admit, surprisingly,  excruciatingly painful to say, even he-who-must-not-be-suffered, JJ. But Yuri wanted him to be so badly. And he knew Otabek tried to be so badly. And he managed to, most of times - against all odds.  And Yuri couldn't help but admire him for it. 

 

He still remembered all juniors in Yakov's camp that he had at the time labeled as 'he could be a threat to my aspirations'. But he had not noticed Otabek,  so there's that. He thought back to Junior days and, when it still seemed like he couldn't remember him, he googled Otabek - he's been doing quite mediocre back then. But then, going into the senior level league, only one year earlier than Yuri, he jumped to silver in Worlds. And Yuri felt strangely proud to have been singled out as a friend by the dark horse. 

Yuri wasn't quite the humble person. But he still couldn't quite get around the idea of this outstanding preference. Yuri liked to pronounce he deserved a lot many things. That he was worth a lot many things.  But for others to declare it openly was yet to become that likely.  But Otabek had literally walked up to Yuri,  told him he struck him  as impressive and specifically asked him to be his friend.

 

Yuri hadn’t done ‘friendship’ before, not really - although he’d done ‘tolerating friendship’ of sorts - not really knowing how to ask for more of it when he was offered any. But since Otabek just told him it was granted, he took it happily - yet not knowing what to do with it anymore than before. Other than use it in the most innocent of ways, that is. 

  
  


He sometimes wondered what would’ve happened if Otabek had talked with him back then, when he was ten and dismissive of anything but his goal. He knew the answer. He would’ve never ended up having his friend, which was a torturous thought, he realized. 

 

But Yuri used to have many other issues back then. It wouldn’t have been the right time.

 

\-----

Yuri had kept his word, to his mother's dismay. He never went back to ballet. He even refused to at least apologize to Mrs Belikov for missing from the recital. But that wasn't the only front he was never to back down on. He refused to lower his voice ever again.  To keep himself in check. He became extremely vehement in declaring what he liked, what he didn't, things he meant to do and those he wouldn't agree on. Their daily arguments involved Yuri's neglected attire.  Wearing strangely mismatched outfits,  with clothes from which he'd torn mercilessly anything he didn't like - he looked homeless,  according to his mother.  And he was making her appear as a negligent mother. 

 

His grandfather kept his word, too. His plea was that skating would tire him more easily,  but not irritate him the way ballet had done. He could relieve all of that young energy without the negative outcomes. And perhaps he could more easily make friends, given that he'd actually share the interest for the sport he was practicing. Evgenia was tired and stressed enough herself for the idea of a tired, elsewhere preoccupied Yuri to seem like the right aim.

 

The premonition did partially come true. Yuri became totally consumed by his new hobby,  preoccupied only by it - which on the other hand meant still no interest in making friends. But he was constantly tired and busy all the same, giving Evgenia that space to breathe. In the beginning, Yuri had gushed to her about it, but his mother definitely had no interest; he could see her just biding her time impatiently until his tirade was over and never tried again - their relationship kept on getting colder and rockier, even if actual fights were less frequent. 

 

The next big scandal happened after Yuri's next haircut. Evgenia noticed him he should get rid of those split ends that weekend. She was gone for a quarter of an hour, talking on the phone outside the salon with a lit cigarette. Going back in, she found he had changed the request. His hair was now - arguably - terribly short, well above his shoulders, just long enough to be easily tucked behind his ears - ears that ringed for the rest of the day, but the deed could not be undone. 

 

Yuri continued to bestow most of his time and affection on Nikolai and his sport. He'd frequently invite Nikolai to see him skate. This Saturday they were announced they'd have a special practice, with someone important watching.  If they did well, they might have a shot to an actual career in skating. 

 

"Yuri, your turn!" his instructor called. At the rink, he had presented himself as Yuri (his grandpa had signed him up, not his mother, so he had taken his chance) and as such he was known. 

 

There have been mentions of a camp and Yuri, along with a couple more have been taken aside and talked of about the possibility of coming under the guidance of a renowned coach and handed some paperwork for their parents to look at and consider. 

 

Evgenia looked at the paper as if Yuri was asking to be assigned into the army during war time. Yuri hasn’t liked that expression, not at all. But his grandfather had warned him in time, on their way home, not to ruin his chances with her. He took the ‘I’ll think about it’ and swallowed his pride, going away quietly.

 

For a moment alone, as Yuri went back to his room that night, Evgenia didn't think it was just a phase. As she looked at her child, slender tough figure, bouncy confident walk, stern bright face, she saw a very pretty... boy.

 


	4. 4

Yuri had always known grandpa Nikolai didn’t have a lot of money. So the knowledge that he had borrowed those necessary for Yuri’s camp made him feel very uneasy, but also very resolved. He couldn’t disappoint him. He had to be good. And he had to be seen. And he wanted to be good and be seen. What would be the point of dreaming if he wouldn’t stand out?

 

Seeing him off, his mother looked still unhappy with this development. She had argued for the longest of times that she simply couldn’t afford the camp and that was obviously the only real issue. And yet, when grandpa Nikolai had made those amends, she had looked almost betrayed. 

 

No, Yuri really couldn’t understand his mother. And Evgenia could probably understand him just as little. But he dutifully bid her goodbye. He didn’t talk of missing her. It didn’t seem truthful. She did talk of taking care of himself and she did seem sincere in that. 

 

***

 

“Plisetsky? Any relation to Evgenia Plisetskaya?”

 

“My mother,” Yuri had answered, not understanding what the fuss was about, concentrated on his work. A tanned, dark-haired boy was struggling terribly next to him and Yuri knew he had to be way better than that.

 

He’d understand the inquiry, too, some time later. His mother would leave her old medals behind, when she’d eventually leave, just like every other piece of her past. 

 

***

 

_ He only had a short amount of time until his body changed.  _

 

It was all a deadline in many ways. Sure, his body’s proportions would change. But he could at least influence them in the right way. After his first season in the senior division Yuri could afford and had the clearance to go on testosterone after his 16th birthday, both medically and legally. Yet another signature his mother bestowed on him by post for his many legal uses across the years. 

 

She did care about him, he guessed. But she had never really wanted him (not her, and not him) from the beginning and he wasn’t going to get hurt by it now. There was a dull ache deep somewhere, but he was understanding. He was really more understanding than most people who knew him would expect of him. Really, he was.

 

He understood how his grandfather couldn’t attend all of his competitions, being tight on money and with a fragile and decaying health, he did. He understood how his mother’s dreams had been different, perhaps a lot like his, but not converging with his. He understood why Victor and Yuuri would spend the off season in Japan instead of always being by his side. He understood how Lilia and Yakov would go on some stupid old people honeymoon and leave him with some stranger to train with for replacement for a while. He understood he couldn’t expect Otabek Altin to be interested in a boy that he knew wasn’t much of a boy, the night his best friend had told him they couldn’t have their usual chat because he was going out with someone.Yuri had been filled with jealousy, then with understanding of what that jealousy meant, then horror at having those feelings, then acceptance on not getting his hopes up. 

 

He did understand.

 

But it didn’t mean there wasn’t a void in his chest. For all those realizations. That there were people that cared about him but not him exclusively and who couldn’t be indefinitely by his side. He was well aware of it. He knew that was something he couldn’t complain about, although, with the temper he had, he indulged himself in complaining about many other things. But he knew there was a limit to the things Yuri Plisetsky could have, but at least it was a little more than Yulia ever could -  maybe.

 

He looked over at Mila whispering sweet nothings over the bleachers to Otabek, after Yuri’s first senior year at Worlds. His friend didn’t look extremely into it, but not avoiding it either. Yuri would complain about a lot of things later to make up for it, but not about this, just like he’d taught himself to. Holding to his bronze, he momentarily wondered if Yulia would’ve had a better chance there, but he brushed it off right away - Yulia didn’t exist. She never had.

 

***

 

He clutched his silver tightly at his second World Championship. Something concrete. Something that couldn’t be denied of him. Something he had the recipe to achieving. It was heartfelt, but methodical. It declared he wasn’t a brute by showcasing his brutality. 

 

He untied his hair as he headed towards the changing rooms. It hang lighter on his shoulders, these days. He still didn’t get that haircut and he wouldn’t get it still. He didn’t feel the pressure of it anymore, although there was still pressure from all other corners. He had lost his temper a lot these days, especially during the last months. He’s been a horror to have around in practice.

 

***

 

_ “Stay away or I’ll cut you!” he shouted to Yuuri when a badly measured jump has almost had them clashing. _

 

_ “Cut me with what?” Yuuri asked, unshaken. _

 

_ Yuri raised his skate-cladden leg, (thankfully) with still admirable flexibility, “With these,” to a somewhat unimpressed and - worse - introspect looking Yuuri. _

 

_ “Given the advanced proximity that’s accidentally probable,” Victor commented, always unhelpful.  _

 

_ Yuri groaned and left the ice. He didn’t turn when to see whether the second sound of someone gliding to the rink’s edge and off of it meant he was being followed. Given the case, he hoped at least it was Yuuri.  _

 

_ He’d never admit to liking Yuuri better than Victor especially considering it meant he’d admit to liking them both to some degree. _

 

_ “Are you nervous about the press release, Yurio?” he asked. Of course, he would hit very close to home. _

 

_ Yuri didn’t stop walking and didn’t turn around, but answered still, “They’ll say a girl did all that.” _

 

_ “If anything, they should be amazed. No girl would land quads like that.”  _

 

_ He turned on his heels suddenly, skin set ablaze. “I don’t want to be seen like an outstanding girl!” _

 

_ “And you shouldn’t be. No boys could match you either. You set world records and were a Grand Prix champion as soon as you debuted in seniors.” _

 

_ “...and then I tumbled down into the depths.” _

 

_ “Hardly. You may have slipped a bit, but you’re hanging on. And you’re too tough not to climb back up.” _

 

_ Easy to say... _

  
  


***

 

“Another season in the can,” Otabek caught up to him, his own bronze hanging by his neck. Katsudon had beaten them both at it again. 

 

“For you. They’ll send me to World Team Trophy, too, no doubts,” he sighed. He looked down at his own glistening silver, wondering how the media will once again try to twist any of the mistakes in his free skate being due to his transition. 

 

He wasn’t really going to change in the lockers, but just pick up his things - he still had a fear of changing rooms. Otabek would, though. He said he just couldn’t stand the sweaty spandex against his skin, skin all too visible to him as Otabek shrugged off a sequined black shirt. Yuri chose to busy himself with the small suitcase his necessaries had been brought in. He’d come and go in his costume for the exhibition, so no need to keep the whole equipment in for nothing.  

 

“The lovebirds invited us to Japan after WTT,” he mentioned as doing so. 

 

Otabek hummed. Yuri turned to see him shrugging into his black jeans. “I’m allowed two months of light practice before I sort out the music and theme for the new routines - manageable in Hasetsu and maybe in St. Petersburg, too.”

 

Yuri raised his face higher, taking in the apparent visit offer. “As if it would be in any way acceptable to visit the geezers, but not me,” he claimed, zipping the bag, as if they didn’t both know the visit to Hasetsu was for Yuri, too.

 

***

  
  


“Is he single?” Katsudon asked him, as Yuri had been watching perhaps too longingly as Otabek disappeared towards his own flight. He and the whole team of Yakov’s were the only ones still waiting for their flight back from World’s. Victor and Mila were off to get some coffee. Yakov himself was keeping his distance to talk on the phone about some important business or another. 

 

“Why? Have you already figured even you could do better than Victor?” Yuri teased, avoiding the obvious.

 

But Katsudon was taking none of it, as the smartass annoyance that he was, looking back at him with those annoying pursed lips.

 

“Let me put it this way. There are ways in which both I and Pinocchio are not real boys and in both cases it has to do with wood.”

 

To his credit, Katsudon didn’t blush as Yuri would’ve expected of him, but did further purse his lips somewhat in embarrassment. “I don’t think that will be a big issue.”

 

“Well, it will be an issue and I don’t want to deal with it.”

 

“There’s more to a relationship than that.”

 

“There’s also that in a relationship, still.”

 

“I don’t think Otabek would-”

 

“Just stop talking about this,” Yuri snapped, throwing his hands in the air impatiently. Yakov side-eyed the outburst, but didn’t say anything about it, turning back again to his conversation. Perhaps he deemed it just a very Yuri thing to do and not at all questionable.

 

Yuri mumbled something about getting some coffee, too, although everybody knew he didn’t like coffee. But he couldn’t go on being there, with the older skater looking at him like that. Was it just Katsudon and his nosey ass or was Yuri always that transparent around Otabek?

  
  
  



End file.
